


When this is all over, let's meet in New York

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - War, And a few surprises, Attraction, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Dog Tags, Drinking, Espionage, Fluff and Smut, Hotel Sex, M/M, Mysterious Sherlock, One Night Stands, Photographer John, Post-Coital Cuddling, Romantic Gestures, Sex, Sexual Tension, Shower Sex, Soulmates, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7626472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freelance photographer John Watson is on assignment in a city verging on war. When he meets the mysterious Sherlock Holmes, tension crackles and the night takes a decidedly sexy turn. A gritty little love story inspired by Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.</p>
<p>  <b>UPDATED: There are new sequel chapters, <i>What happened in New York</i>.</b>    (Because they can't be stopped.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in a completely imaginary country and refers to no real-life political events. It's purely escapist fantasy.

( _This is an image I made that helped inspire the idea for this fic. Damn their sexy scruff.)_

 

John slipped the cool glass cylinder of the bottle neck between his lips and swallowed greedily, downing half the beer in one go. He was parched and his nerves were raw. He paused, gripped the bottle tighter, then chugged again, signaling the bartender for another before he set the beer down onto the lacquered bar.

Christ, what a day. John rubbed his forehead, a familiar ache settling behind his eyes. It was all the tension he'd kept at bay earlier, the suppressed stress of inserting himself into the volatile crowd to photograph the latest protest outside the presidential palace.

He could see the images in his mind, perfectly framed. _Click_ : The intimidating wall of police, their faces hidden behind riot gear and shields. _Click_ : Mouths roaring open in a chant, signs and banners rippling above the angry crowd. _Click_ : Rocks and bottles flying, batons raised, warning shots fired, bloodied faces and running bodies.

John had been in enough demonstrations to know when to move to the edge of the crowd and avoid the worst of the melee. He'd found a relatively safe vantage point crouched on a balcony, shooting frame after frame of the clash.

Once again, he thanked the inventor of telephoto lenses. He sucked down the second beer. And thank God for alcohol. Two beers would steady his nerves. Three might even make him feel normal.

_Normal_ , he scoffed to himself. He didn't even know what that was anymore. He'd been traveling around the world for ten years, dragging his cameras and a battered laptop from one hell hole to another, photographing war and famine and disaster.

Before that, a stint in the Army had stripped away any need for comfort. Pockmarked hotels, shabby guesthouses, and cheap bars were now his home. The saddest places in the world, really, filled with adrenaline-fueled journalists, jaded opportunists, and sleazy characters of all stripes.

He picked numbly at the label on the bottle, sliding into a dark mood. He was relieved to have a distraction when a pair of shapely legs eased onto the bar stool next to him.

“Was it a beer or whiskey day?” his new companion asked.

“Anthea,” John greeted the pretty brunette next to him, giving her a smile more cheerful than he really felt. “Just a beer day. I'll even buy you one.”

He flicked up two fingers and the bartender nodded.

Anthea smiled back faintly and glanced down at her phone.

“So, get your story filed by deadline?” John asked, resting his cheek in his hand, elbow propped on the bar.

“Of course.” Her eyes remained on her phone.

“This place is a powder keg,” John leaned a bit closer. “It’s all going to shit any day now. Did you tell your editor that?”

“Yes, I did. It's like Christmas to him. I thought he'd pee his pants with excitement,” she said dryly, her thumbs busy on the keyboard.

The beers arrived and Anthea finally looked up. “Thanks.” She took a sip, turning to face John more fully.

John gazed at her fondly. He'd known her on and off for almost two years, their paths crossing across continents. He knew she had some bloke back in England, some mysterious government type whom she never really talked about. Still, it didn't stop him from flirting with her. It's what he did to pass the time.

“You should really come up and see the view from my room, you know,” he ran a finger suggestively down his beer bottle. “Enjoy the skyline before it's all blown to bits.”

“Mm, and I'm sure it's most beautiful at sunset, isn't it?” she purred back, playing along.

“It’s spectacular… And you should stay for the sunrise, too.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, John,” Anthea tossed her hair back over one shoulder and looked back at her phone, “fuck off.”

John grinned, and they settled into trading the latest rumors about the president, the opposition, and the likely timing of another coup attempt. The last uprising had been three years ago, with alliances and power switching hands faster than outside analysts could keep up with.

As they chatted, a trickle of reporters, fixers, and drivers began filing into the bar.

“Look,” Anthea nudged John and nodded toward a corner of the room. “Donovan and Anderson are at it again.”

John looked over her shoulder at a man and woman engaged in a heated exchange at a back table. Their voices raised as their hands flew in angry gestures.

“Trouble in paradise,” John muttered.

Everyone knew about Donovan and Anderson's on-again, off-again affair and their constant bickering. They worked as a team; Donovan the reporter, Anderson the cameraman. Professionalism didn't always win out after a day of dodging rocks and tear gas.

Donovan suddenly scraped her chair back and stood up. “You're such a fucking idiot!” She threw her drink into Anderson’s face and stalked away, a few hoots and claps following in her wake.

Anderson wiped his face, his scraggly beard dripping forlornly onto the table.

John turned back to his drink. Relationships rarely went smoothly in this pressure cooker environment. Besides, everyone had to be a little off kilter to willingly put themselves in a place like this in the first place. No surprise then when things got heated. But sometimes that intense heat could lead to a good thing…

“What are you smiling about?” Anthea asked, catching a strange look on John's face.

“Nothing,” he lied. He was thinking back to his Army days, a stifling desert tent, tempers flaring, and the best blow job of his life. Not a story he was going to share at this particular moment.

He was lost in thought for a few more seco dis, remembering deep blue eyes and a muscular bare torso stretched out on a canvas cot when Anthea let out a low murmur of intrigue.

“Now who's _that?”_ she asked, her gaze trained on the end of the bar near the entrance.

John swiveled his head, expecting to see another burly bodyguard or grungy backpacker. Instead, his eyes widened at the striking profile of a lean man with dark wavy hair and sharp features, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to expose tanned forearms, the line from his shoulders to hips tapering in an elegantly pleasing ratio.

The man was paying for a drink, a gin and tonic maybe, long fingers peeling off a few bills that he left on the bar. He dropped a well-worn backpack onto the stool next to him and remained standing as he sipped the drink. He probably had just climbed out of a Land Rover after a long and dusty ride and needed a stretch.

“Never seen him before,” John said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Reuters?” Anthea suggested, absently running the rim of her beer bottle along her lower lip, still staring at the stranger.

“Probably broadcast, with a face like that,” John muttered, bothered that he couldn't place the man.

The stranger suddenly looked in their direction, pinning John and Anthea with a direct gaze that made them quickly shift their eyes elsewhere.

“Bloody hell,” John heard himself say. He wasn't usually caught off guard, but the man burned with an energy that crackled across the room. Those piercing eyes, the corded tendon running down his neck, the buttons straining over his chest…

John took another swallow of beer, trying to hide how flustered he suddenly felt. He glanced at Anthea, who was tipping back her bottle, a flush coloring her cheeks.

They studiously avoided looking at the man.

“I don't think he's with the press corps,” John whispered to Anthea, his scalp tingling where he swore the man was staring at the back of his head.

Anthea furrowed her brow, and John continued. “He's either private security or a spook.”

“I think you're right,” Anthea whispered back. “Did you see his hands? They look positively lethal.”

So did his thighs, John thought privately.

Anthea straightened her back and took a deep breath. “I'm going over there and introducing myself.”

“What?” Before John could say another word, Anthea slid off the stool and sauntered over to the stranger.

John watched as casually as possible, unable to hear their exchange, but able to see them shake hands. He noticed how Anthea tossed her hair again, then heard a snatch of her throaty laugh.

He turned away. That was it then. No chance there. He drained the last dregs of beer, preparing to leave. He’d head back to his room, maybe edit a few more photos before bed. There was one in particular that needed the exposure toned down, the colors cooled a bit…

He felt them by his shoulder before he turned around.

“John, I’d like you to meet someone,” Anthea was saying, looking quite pleased with herself. “This is Mr. Holmes.”

John offered his hand as Anthea went on.

“And this is John Watson, freelance photographer. One of the best shooters around.”

“How do you do?” Holmes asked, his expression neutral.

But his voice. John had never heard anything quite like it, the timbre impossibly rich.

“Pleasure,” John managed to say in return. “What brings you to our little slice of hell?”

Holmes’ mouth curved up only slightly. “Contract work.”

Exactly what a spy would say, John mused. He was British, maybe hired out to the CIA or some sort of intelligence agency. Whatever he did, it was off the radar.

“I’ve invited Mr. Holmes to the guest house,” Anthea interjected. “Bit more lively than this place.”

John noted Holmes’ expensive watch and finely tailored shirt. “Hope you like cheap liquor and loud music.”

Holmes smiled a tiny fraction more. “I’ve been stuck in the countryside for three weeks. I could do with a distraction.”


	2. Chapter 2

The room swam with strings of colored lights, clouds of smoke, and thumping bass. John pushed his way through the crowd holding two drinks high above his head, avoiding jostling elbows and grinding couples, occasionally nodding at a familiar face.

He wove his way over to Holmes, who was sitting on one of the mismatched sofas in a corner, observing the room.

“Where’s Anthea?” John shouted above the din.

“She had to take a phone call.”

John could see her nowhere, so he handed Holmes the second drink and took a seat across from him on a tatty orange couch. It was too loud to talk.

John sipped at the rough whiskey, trying not to look at Holmes as often as he really wanted to. The man was damned attractive, relaxing against the back of the sofa, his legs casually crossed as if he owned the place.

“I’m dying for a smoke,” Holmes finally said. “Is there somewhere quieter outside…?”

“Sure.” John didn't mind the thought of having him alone for a few minutes. "Follow me." He led his guest to an inner courtyard where the music was muffled to a dull roar.

He watched Holmes draw out a cigarette and place it between his shapely lips, the lighter flame illuminating the planes and angles of his face beneath a week’s worth of stubble. His eyes shifted colors in the low light, his lashes long and dark. God, he was stunning.

Holmes exhaled, bending his neck up to the sky. “No moon tonight,” he said absently.

“Hadn’t noticed,” John replied, leaning against a low stone wall. Growing more curious, he couldn't resist trying to find out more about Holmes. “What exactly do you do again?”

“Consulting work.” He put the cigarette to his lips, not offering any more details. “How long have you been a photographer?”

“Professionally? About 10 years. I was a medic in the Army before that.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan.”

Holmes regarded him for a long moment. “So you’ve seen a lot of injuries… death…”

John tensed, not sure what he was getting at. “Yes. Of course.”

“Don’t you ever want to get away from it?”

John shrugged defensively. “I’m used to it. I just focus on the job.”

“Hm. Yes. We all get used to it. We all focus. Until we lose sight of everything.”

John frowned at him, unable to decipher his meaning. 

Holmes laughed unexpectedly, curtly. “I’m getting philosophical. Never mind me.” He flicked ash to the side and looked up at the sky again. “You and Anthea… Are you together?”

Nothing like cutting to the chase, John thought with disappointment. “No, no. We’re just friends. I can give you her number, if you want.”

Holmes produced a slip of paper from his pocket. “She already gave it to me.”

“Ah.” John pulled at his whiskey. He wasn't feeling nearly drunk enough. He wanted to leave, and yet he didn't. There didn't seem to be much point standing here chatting if Holmes just wanted to hook up with Anthea. Where was she, anyway?

“What about you?” Holmes asked. “Wife and kids back home?”

John snorted out a sarcastic laugh. “No.”

Holmes exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “No special friend here?”

John smiled ruefully. His special friend these days was his own hand. “No, not really.”

“Good, then. We’re both unattached.”

John glanced up at Holmes, not certain he'd heard him correctly. If he had... well, then, that changed things. His hopes renewed, he locked onto the other man’s gaze, and he felt it again, that spark crackling in the air between them. It was thrilling, the hint of danger that clung to this mysterious stranger’s every move.

John licked his lips. Flirtation welled up, spilled out. “I don't think I caught your first name.”

“Sherlock.” Holmes extended his hand again.

John took it, feeling the weight of bones and tendons and warm flesh wrapping around his own palm. He stared at Sherlock's lush bottom lip, knowing he was holding his hand far too long.

“That's an unusual name.”

“Really? No one’s ever said that before.”

John felt his cheeks warm at the sarcasm aimed at his unoriginal comment, but he covered it quickly. “It suits you.” He ran a hand over his own stubbly jaw, pondering how obvious he should be. What the hell, he'd just ask. “Where are you staying?”

“I'm booked at the hotel, but my plans could change.”

John didn't miss that hint, either. He smirked, not believing how quickly the situation had evolved. Encounters were often accelerated that way, never knowing what the next day might bring. Could be the biggest story of your career, or a stray bullet. It could all be over in a fiery second. Grab what pleasure you could while you were still in one piece.

John knew his next line was lame, but it'd worked more than once. “Do you want to see some of my photos… up in my room?”

Somewhere in the distance a sputter of gunfire ripped through the night. Sherlock slowly ground out the cigarette butt under his heel. “I'd like that very much.”


	3. Chapter 3

John switched on the small desk lamp and pushed the door shut, making sure it was locked for privacy. He looked around his room, messy as always, thankful that he'd at least washed and folded his laundry yesterday. He moved a stack of clothes off a chair and onto the dresser, then turned to his guest.

“Sorry it's a wreck… I'm not here much.”

Sherlock didn't answer. He stepped closer, dipping his fingers into the collar of John’s T-shirt, hooking out the silver chain that hung around John's neck.

John swallowed, agitated by the unexpected invasion and excited by the heat emanating from the other man’s body.

Sherlock examined the two metal discs secured at the end of the chain, John's old military ID. He flicked his gaze up to John's face. “You still wear these.” It was more a statement than a question.

“I made it out of Afghanistan alive, so I figure they're good luck,” John explained. “And now if I get killed on the job… Well, at least they'll know who I was.”

Sherlock fingered the discs. “Superstitious _and_ pragmatic. That's quite a combination.”

“Makes as much sense as anything else,” John answered.

Sherlock ran a thumb over the gleaming metal. “Maybe so.”

Music thrummed through the floorboards and a woman’s laughter floated up from the courtyard below. Sherlock tugged gently on the chain, pulling John closer.

John caught his breath, unused to being the seduced instead of the seducer. The way Sherlock was gazing at him was intoxicating, and he let himself fall into the haze, waiting to see what would happen next.

A brush of lips, a trace of whiskey and smoke, the chain biting into the back of his neck as Sherlock pulled him even closer.

A light nip on his bottom lip, a hand at the small of his back, noses touching, breathing in. A deeper kiss, growing bolder, a tip of tongue teasing beneath his upper lip, instigating a multitude of sinful thoughts about other places that tongue might probe. _Damn..._

Fingers in beards, soft and bristly, firm shoulders, bumps of spine, hands mapping the slope above a perfectly rounded arse.

Sherlock drew back, his mouth hovering above John's, taunting, tantalizing. John found himself straining upwards, lifting on his toes, a thin groan for more slipping from his throat.

Sherlock smiled, knowing he had the upper hand. He ran his palm down John's neck, dropping silky words near his ear.

“Undress for me.” He eased back, leaning against the desk to watch.

John hesitated, not sure what to make of this demand. But why not go for it? _Carpe diem._ He plucked up the hem of his black shirt, easing the soft cotton to his shoulders, over his head. He stood tall, his posture erect, and dropped the T-shirt to the floor.

John smoothed his hair back from his forehead. It had grown long in front, the wave of silver-blond contrasting with his dark blue eyes. He stilled, letting Sherlock look at him at his leisure. John was not shy about his appearance -- he was no bodybuilder, but he was fit and tanned.

John monitored Sherlock’s appraisal, catching the exact moment Sherlock noticed the scar on his left shoulder: a narrowing of eyes, the quick calculations of what might have happened.

Surprisingly, he didn't ask about it. Instead, Sherlock’s eyes continued down John's torso to his stomach and the thin line of dark hair that disappeared under the waistband of his faded jeans.

“Take the rest off.”

John held Sherlock's gaze as he slipped off his shoes and socks, then slowly worked open his belt buckle and fly. He was starting to enjoy this little strip tease. He hooked his thumbs in the denim over his hips and paused, drawing out the suspense a little longer.

John waited until he could see an impatient tic in Sherlock's jaw, then pushed his jeans and pants down his thighs, past his calves, and stepped free from the crumpled fabric. He stood up slowly, his hands loose at his sides, and tilted his head, silently daring Sherlock to remain impassive.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock breathed out.

“See something you like?” John baited, turning the tables. It was a simple fact. He had a big dick. And right now, only partially aroused, it was impressive. Completely erect, it was unforgettable. Or so he liked to think.

John basked in Sherlock's appreciative stare, then reached for the loop of chain around his neck. Might as well take everything off.

“No!” Sherlock barked out. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Leave the tags on… please.”

John smiled smugly to himself, knowing he had just found another advantage. Could be interesting, this little kink. “Alright, they stay on. But now it's your turn. Strip.”

For several seconds, Sherlock didn't move, and John's confidence wavered. But then the elegant hands lifted and, one by one, began unfastening each pearly button.

It was agonizing, trying to feign aloofness, when what John really wanted to do was rip the shirt off Sherlock's back and put his mouth all over that hot skin. His cock twitched at the thought.

The white shirt rustled to the floor and John looked hungrily at Sherlock. His bare chest was sculpted in the lamplight, a relief of muscle and veins and sparse coarse hair and dusky pink nipples. The tension mounted tenfold in two heartbeats.

John finally nodded slightly, an indication that the trousers should come off next.

Perhaps Sherlock's fingers fumbled just a bit at his waistband, his breath shallow as the   _zzzzzziip_ of his lowering fly filled the room, momentarily drowning out the throbbing music.

Down slid the black trousers and boxer briefs, revealing hard thighs, firm calves, a creamy white arse where the sun had not bronzed his skin, and, oh, quite a lovely cock, long and lean like the rest of him.

They stood across from each other, utterly naked, time temporarily suspended. The driving beat from below, a wail of sirens in the distance, a sense of impending violence in the city pressing around them. This could be the calm before the storm, the last few hours before everything descended into chaos.

They inhaled simultaneously, waiting for a hidden signal. It came in the form of breaking glass, some drunk asshole shattering a beer bottle against the stone wall below.

The noise was the trigger that propelled them both forward, smashing together in a fury of mouths and hands smearing and groping, falling to the rickety bed, wrestling on the lumpy mattress, gasping and grunting, curved necks and bent knees, hands in hair, hips pressing, humping, grinding.

John scrabbled in a drawer for a condom, rolling the thin latex down his cock, his overly eager fingers clumsy. Sherlock pushed John onto his back, trailing his mouth down neck, over sternum, past belly, finding what he wanted between John's legs.

John arched his head back onto his pillow, engulfed by Sherlock's plush mouth, sensuous warmth, agile tongue. He squirmed in pleasure, heels digging into the bed, his fingers sinking into Sherlock's hair.

The beer, the whiskey, the endorphins flooding through John's body made the room spin and he closed his eyes, embracing the carnality of the moment, knowing he was alive.


	4. Chapter 4

Without opening his eyes, John knew it was morning. He could hear birds chirping, the heat from the rising sun starting to warm the room. He was almost awake, but drifted in semi-sleep for a little longer, remembering flashes of details from the night before.

The slow disrobing, the frantic mauling on the mattress, that mouth… God... those lips wrapped around his cock… That was only round one.

Round two was even more intense. Another vivid image flashed into his mind: Sherlock on all fours on the bed, fingers clutching into the sheets, John grasping Sherlock’s hips from behind, thrusting rhythmically, dog tags jingling as they bounced against his chest, springs squeaking, skin softly slapping, low breathy moans…

Afterward, they laid tangled together in the sheets, their chests rising and falling, shiny with perspiration. Sherlock turned to look at John, a smile forming on his lips, his gaze soft.

“You can make me forget where I am,” Sherlock said quietly. “That hasn't happened in a long time.”

John smiled back, cupping Sherlock’s jaw with his palm. He found himself leaning down for another kiss, drawing Sherlock in close like a familiar lover. The ease with which he did it, and how completely natural it felt, surprised him. He could feel a flickering halt in Sherlock's response, as if he too was caught off guard.

But Sherlock soon relaxed into the embrace, slotting himself against John's shoulder, John nuzzling his cheek against the top of Sherlock's head.

Maybe it was foolish, allowing themselves to be tender like this; maybe they were just both imagining they were somewhere else, with someone beloved. It was a dangerous temptation to spin fantasies when you were tired and calloused and cynical. But it felt good, arms and legs wrapped around each other, too safe and soothing to let go.

At some point they both nodded off, John waking again just long enough to turn off the lamp and open the window to let in the cool night air.

Hours later, Sherlock initiated a third round. They were insatiable.

This time was the most intense of them all. It felt -- and John was not one to use these types of words lightly -- deeply intimate.

He’d gotten up to use the bathroom, the room dark, and while stumbling back to bed two arms wrapped around his waist, propelling him back against the wall. Sherlock was kissing his mouth, along his throat, hands stroking his chest, down his stomach, up his thighs, guiding him to the desk under the window that looked out over the courtyard.

“Turn around,” Sherlock whispered roughly.

John did as asked, his arms braced on the desktop, a faint breeze from the open window playing with his hair, the city eerily silent in the small hours of the morning.

Sherlock’s lips barely brushed behind John’s ear as he pressed into his back, slowly melting John’s body like soft wax as they bent over the desk. The snap of the lube cap, Sherlock tracing the cleft between John's buttocks, inserting one finger, two, working until he was pliant…

John closed his eyes, lowered his head as Sherlock’s mouth warmed the nape of his neck, his legs instinctively adjusting as Sherlock finally entered him slowly, carefully.

They fit together perfectly, giving, receiving, fucking in a dreamlike state. John pictured how they would look from below, surreal, two pale figures framed by the window, clasped together, moving in tandem in the shadows, silent but for their ragged breaths.

They came almost simultaneously, John pressing his arse against Sherlock's hips, aching to take Sherlock’s cock even deeper. John's legs quaked, the strong arm looped around his chest holding him up as they rode out the last waves of their release.

They collapsed onto the bed again, quenched in sleepy, sultry bliss. Sherlock placed his lips lingeringly over the scar on John's shoulder.

“You owe me the story about that,” Sherlock murmured before tucking himself against John’s back.

John was asleep before he could even form an answer.

Now awake, John replayed the night in his head, quietly wondering what would happen next. He barely knew Sherlock, and yet they'd shared what was easily the most sensual experience of his life.

John was intrigued, beguiled, maybe more than a bit smitten with a near stranger … his mouth… and eyes… and voice and hair and hands, how he both took control of and gave himself over to John -- that dynamic was scintillating, exciting, and John craved more.

First, though, maybe they’d have breakfast, linger over coffee, actually talk. He opened his eyes and eagerly turned over in bed, expecting to be greeted by a head of dark messy hair. But Sherlock wasn't there.

John sat up, rubbed his eyes, and glanced toward the bathroom. The door was open, clearly empty.

He climbed out of bed, wrapping a sheet around his waist. He shuffled to the door, his foot crinkling an empty condom wrapper on the floor. He peeked down the hallway. No one in sight.

He stepped back into his room and slumped against the door, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. Sherlock had simply left without a word.

But maybe there was a note he had missed. He crossed over to the desk. Nothing. He turned over a pillow. He even checked the bathroom. Nothing.

His phone. John snatched it up, quickly checking for messages. Nothing new.

John sat down on the mattress, heavy with disappointment. He really had no right to feel this crushed. It was a one-night stand, nothing more, he reasoned. A lusty, sex-fueled night together with barely any words exchanged.

But it had felt like so much more… Like they had a special connection. They were so raw and demanding with each other one moment, then gentle and vulnerable the next, their bodies fervent conduits for something else running deep and unspoken… Two halves of a whole... almost like soulmates...

 _Jesus. Pull yourself together_ , John chastised himself. He was really letting his imagination run wild. Too much booze and sex and not enough sleep. Still, that word _soulmates_ whispered around in his skull, refusing to be quelled.

He massaged his forehead. Maybe Anthea had Sherlock's number… No, that would be too pathetic to ask. Maybe Sherlock was back at the hotel, and he could catch him before he left. But that would be awkward. What would he even say?

He really had no idea who Sherlock was or why he'd come to this city. Maybe he should just search his name on the Internet, see what popped up. Everyone left some sort of online trail. And Sherlock Holmes wasn't a common name, after all.

John stood up and went to his desk again, trying not to think about how he'd been splayed over it, moaning, pinned down by Sherlock's lithe body -- just focus, open the damn laptop, look him up, and get a grip. Where was the bloody thing? He lifted a stack of papers, pulled open the desk drawer. Had he moved it? Must be on the dresser.

It wasn't there, either. John quickly pulled on his jeans and started another search for the laptop, a cold dread forming in his stomach. He looked under the bed, in the closet, in every drawer. He had used it just yesterday afternoon. Thankfully, all his cameras were safe and sound, which made the disappearance of the laptop all the more strange. A common thief would have taken the lot.

“Shit,” he muttered, growing more desperate as each second passed. That computer was his livelihood. His photo archives, editing software, his connection to his clients, everything. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He stopped in the center of the room, realization sinking in. He clasped his hands around the back of his neck and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his blood pressure rise. Goddammit to motherfucking hell, he was an idiot. He'd been played. The fucking suave son of a bitch had targeted him and stolen his laptop.


	5. Chapter 5

John was showered, dressed, and out the door in under seven minutes.

He sprinted to the hotel, out of breath by the time he pushed through the doors to the lobby and rushed to the reception desk.

“Mr. Holmes -- is he still here?” John panted.

The clerk looked at him quizzically. “I'm sorry, Sir. Who are you looking for?”

John repeated and spelled the name, and the young man shook his head as he scrolled through a list. “No one is registered by that name.”

“Are you sure? British, tall, dark hair, quite good looking?” John winced after saying the last part out loud.

“I’m sorry, but I don't recall anyone like that.” The clerk frowned contemplatively, then his face suddenly brightened. “Are you Mr. Watson, by chance?”

John nodded, confused.

“A package arrived about an hour ago. They said you’d be coming to check on a friend, and I should give you this.” The clerk leaned down and withdrew a large padded envelope from under the counter.

John looked at it suspiciously. “Who brought this?”

“Just a boy. I didn't recognize him.”

“Thanks.” John turned away from the desk and crossed over to a set of chairs in a quiet corner. He tore open the hefty envelope and out slid a laptop -- his laptop -- and a cheap mobile phone that looked like something a drug dealer would use. He breathed a sigh of relief, but was as mystified as ever.

The computer appeared unharmed, but he flipped it open to boot it up and check his files. As soon as he entered his password, the phone rang.

John eyed the mobile. With hesitation, he accepted the call. He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

“Good morning, John.”

That voice. Deep, velvety, self-assured. John raised his eyes to the ceiling half in thanks, half in rage. He let the rage win out, stringing together a blistering set of curses that could peel the paint off furniture.

“Well…” Sherlock finally said after the tirade was over. “That’s very colorful. But I can explain.”

“Explain what?” John growled. “That you're a goddamn spy?”

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds. “Not exactly. It's complicated. But I needed to access your photos from yesterday’s demonstration.”

“Why”

“They have a certain value if you're looking for specific faces, security details… I'm sure you understand.”

“I'm not sure I do.” John could easily imagine a number of scenarios, but felt like being stubborn.

“Would it help to know the information provided in your photos may save several lives?”

John blinked. “Oh.”

But he was still angry, dammit.

“So why not just drug me, or whatever you usually do, and just take the bloody computer? Why go through all that --” John stopped, gritted his teeth, overcome by the remembered sensation of their bodies pulsing together “-- all _that_ last night?”

There was a lengthy pause before Sherlock answered. “Because I wanted to.” He paused again. “Because I wanted you.”

Silence on both ends as this confession sank in. John gripped the phone, his hand warm.

“So you don't fuck all of your assignments?”

“What? God, no!”

The disgust in Sherlock's tone was reassuring. John’s anger gradually dissipated, his voice softening. “Where are you?”

“About 30,000 feet above you. That's all I can say.”

John stared out the hotel window, picturing a private jet somewhere far away in the blue sky.

“You still owe me the story about that scar,” Sherlock reminded him, his voice low and seductive.

John drifted into a vision of a rumpled bed somewhere, Sherlock caressing his injured shoulder, lips on his neck, legs straddling his hips...

Another part of his brain registered the scene directly out the window in front of him: four tanks rolling menacingly down the street toward the palace, a deep rumbling shaking the walls and floor. He snapped back to reality.

“Sherlock…” John wanted to say so much, and there wasn't time. “I have to go. Something big is happening here.”

“John, wait.” Sherlock rushed his words. “I do this kind of work because I owe favors to powerful people. I’ve done some questionable things in my past, and I'm working off a debt. This damn contract ends in a month and I'll be free.”

John edged toward the door, torn between staying on the line and running back to the house for his cameras. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

“John -- last night was --” he stumbled, regained his footing, “It was special… I make it a rule not to get involved, but I want to see you again.”

John stopped, pressing against the wall as people hurried through the lobby, worry rippling through the air. He closed his eyes. “I want to see you, too.”

“When this is all over, let’s meet in New York. I'll buy you a proper dinner. The finest bottle of wine. An apology for borrowing your laptop.”

John’s mouth quirked up. Like hell he ‘borrowed’ it. “You have my number?”

“Of course. I'll contact you when I can.”

“Can't I call you?”

“No. Just throw the phone away. It won't work after this.”

People were flooding into the streets, the atmosphere of fear and agitation brewing. John really had to leave now. “Sherlock --”

“Goodbye, John. Be careful.”

“You too.” John grasped the chain around his neck and withdrew his dog tags, an old habit of checking his lucky talisman. His eyes widened. One of the tags was missing.

He knew exactly who had it. He smiled to himself, thinking how incorrigible Sherlock was. He held the phone to his ear one moment more, not wanting to end the call, but knowing precious seconds were ticking by. He said his name one last time. “Sherlock… I’ll see you in New York.”

He pocketed the mobile and tucked the laptop sheathed in the envelope under his arm. He pushed into the street, automatically framing shots in his head, the promise of New York glowing hotly under his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did the thing. I wrote a little sequel. Right this way >>>>>>>>


	6. What happened in New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! For those of you who wondered what happened next...

John’s neck hurt, a camera bag and a laptop satchel weighing down his shoulders, his left arm aching from pulling the wheeled suitcase behind him.

He'd forgotten that one of the wheels had lost its rubber outer coating somewhere on a flight to Istanbul more than a year ago. Now the battered bag rolled unevenly along the tiled airport floor, making an annoying clicking noise every third rotation.

He was spewed into the international arrivals area, eager faces of parents and siblings, friends and lovers quickly scanning past him, searching for their loved ones.

God, he was tired. John readjusted the bulky camera bag, his eyes roving for a sign that could point him to the taxi queue. Several bored-looking private car drivers in suits stood along the sides, holding up signs for their passengers. Mr. Wang. Ms. Schmidt. Mr. Obeke. Mr. Watson.

John slowed, caught off guard by the sight of his own name. Granted, it was a common enough surname, and he certainly hadn't hired a car...

His gaze traveled up the black lapels of the driver’s suit to an angular face hidden beneath a chauffeur’s cap and reflective aviator sunglasses. John squinted as he drew closer, sure his sleep-deprived brain was playing tricks on him. But that mouth, that lanky frame, those big hands…

John halted several yards away, unable to process these odd coincidences. It wasn't until the driver broke into a grin that John fully recognized him. John grinned back, rushing forward.

“Sherlock, you berk. Why didn't you tell me you'd be here? And what's with the outfit?”

Sherlock reached for John's laptop and hooked the strap over his shoulder. “Just passing the time. Welcome to New York.”

Sherlock swept John along, leading him out a set of doors to the curb lined with black town cars and limousines. He headed to a luxury sedan, helped load John's luggage into the boot, then pulled open the door to the back seat, ushering John inside.

Sherlock quickly slid onto the seat beside John. He leaned forward to speak to the driver through a lowered partition. “The hotel, Wiggins. And take your time.”

Sherlock pressed a button and a tinted window rose behind the driver, secluding them in a cocoon of darkened glass and buttery leather. He turned to John, slipped off his sunglasses, draped an arm across the top of the seat. “Alone at last.”

John smiled, shaking his head slightly. “You're absolutely mad.” He tilted the cap away from Sherlock’s forehead, a glossy curl springing free. He pressed into Sherlock, found his mouth, delivering a proper hello. The seat groaned softly as they shifted, the kiss deepening, hands roaming.

John eventually drew back, a little breathless. “It's been so long.” He ran a palm down Sherlock chest, dipping to nuzzle an earlobe, lick a hot stripe up his neck.

“Two months.” Sherlock’s hand slid up John's thigh, delved into the valley between John's legs.

John's knees fell open, allowing Sherlock’s talented fingers to cup and gently squeeze the growing bulge in his jeans.

“Mmhmm, I've missed you,” Sherlock panted against John's throat, bending him down against the luxurious grain of the bench seat, quick fingers working open John's fly.

John pawed at Sherlock's jacket and shirt, a low growl in his throat. “Off.”

Sherlock scrambled to undo his buttons and wrestle off his jacket and shirt while John wriggled his jeans and pants over his hips, his cock springing free. They paused, breathing heavily, limbs jutting, eyes locking, barely noticing the small bumps and banks as the car moved through traffic.

John stilled, taking in the high color on Sherlock's cheeks, the flush across his lean chest, the cap set at an angle, allowing tempting wisps of hair to curl across his forehead. John unconsciously bit his own lower lip in desire.

Sherlock reached up, about to remove the chauffeur cap and toss it aside.

John put out a hand. “Wear it.”

A corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted, his eyes glinting wickedly. “As you please, Mr. Watson.”

Sherlock grasped the base of John's cock, his bare back curving downward, his lips parting; John’s neck arched, and he moaned --

_Ding Ding_

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our final descent into New York City. Please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in the upright and locked positions. We’ll be landing shortly.”

John twitched awake with an embarrassing snort, startled by the voice blaring over the intercom. Completely disoriented, he gaped stupidly at his surroundings. The woman seated next to him frowned and edged away as far as she could.

He ran a hand over his beard and rubbed out the kink in his neck. He'd fallen asleep with his head jammed against the side of the plane, dreaming. _Oh, God, what a dream..._

He glanced down, mortified to see he had a world-class hard on. He quickly folded his hands over his crotch, trying to distract himself by looking out the window.

He glimpsed the skyline, a jagged line of skyscrapers reflecting the fiery orange of the early morning sunlight.

Fifty-seven days had passed since he'd last seen Sherlock, longer than the promised month of separation. He had heard nothing during all that time, and had started giving up hope, spending far too much time drinking moodily in the bar.

But three days ago, he'd received a text:

_Flight 1895 to New York leaves Thursday. Ticket purchased for you._

_Hotel arranged._ _Will meet you there._

A few moments later, another message arrived:

_Sorry for the delay. It was unavoidable._

_I still think about that night_

Soon after an email arrived with the electronic ticket, and another with the address of a hotel in Manhattan.

John did not hesitate. He wrapped up his business, packed his luggage, said his farewells, and boarded the plane, a quiver of excitement lodged low in his belly.

Now he was here in New York, as promised. The landing was smooth, customs a blur, the cab ride into the city an overpriced impression of warehouses, tall buildings, a sea of taxis, a Starbucks on every corner.

John checked into the hotel, a refurbished older building with marble floors and gilded accents managing to blend nicely with the modern decor. The two slow-moving elevators were quite small, revealing the hotel’s true age. He exited on the fifth floor and found the room, slotted the key card into the door, and entered.

It was relatively spacious: a small sitting area with a table, two chairs, sofa, television, and desk. He peeked into the bathroom -- toilet, sink, large glassed-in shower, all very sleek.

The bedroom was separated by a set of French doors covered with a gauzy curtain. Only one bed. A very large one. Very good.

He dropped his camera bag and laptop onto the dresser, retrieved his toothbrush and clean clothes from his luggage, determined to stay awake as long as he could to adjust to the new time.

He'd have a quick shower, go out, take a walk, get the lay of the land, maybe spend the day exploring...

Less than two hours later, he was face down on the bed dressed only in his pants, the heavy curtains blocking out the light, giving into jet lag.

 

******************

 

It could have been noon or nine or midnight when the door opened with a soft click and creak. John didn't hear it, still fast asleep on his side. He didn't hear the slipping off of shoes, the trickle of the tap, the hushed footsteps across the carpet, the rustle of clothes draped across a chair.

Some part of him grew aware of a presence in the dim room, the lifting of the single sheet, the dip in the mattress, someone climbing quietly into bed. John stirred, surfacing as cool knees tucked under his thighs, a warm chest molded against his back, an arm drifting over his hip.

He heard the deep sigh of exhaustion, felt the exhalation tickle his ear. He struggled to say something, to turn and wake for this long awaited moment.

“You're here,” John mumbled groggily.

“Shhhhh. Don't move.” Sherlock shifted closer, fitting their bodies together.

John obeyed, drifting off again, wrapped in Sherlock's arms and the scents that clung to his hair and skin -- acrid jet fuel, lemony hand soap, the last warm notes of cologne mixing with a salty tang of perspiration.

Sherlock nudged his pelvis into John's arse, rolling his hips a few sleepy thrusts. The hint of hardness between his buttocks caused John's sluggish blood to heat, pooling in his groin. They were both too knackered to do anything about it, opting to slip into a partially aroused sleep, wound together.


	7. Chapter 7

John woke hours later, momentarily at a loss. He quickly remembered and rolled over, wanting to touch Sherlock again. The bedsheets and pillow were rumpled, the bed empty. John's brows drew together in consternation, wondering if Sherlock climbing in bed next to him was just another dream.

His eyes then landed on the piece of paper that had slipped off the pillow. It was a sheet torn from a notepad, the hotel logo emblazoned across the bottom.

He picked it up and read it, a slow smile forming on his lips.

_I owe you dinner, remember? I have one more errand, then I'm all yours. Reservations at 7:30 tonight._

The address of a restaurant was scrawled beneath.

John ran a hand through his messy hair, then glanced at the clock on the nightstand. He had several hours before dinner. Fine, then. He'd have another look around the city, this time taking a camera.

He felt much more refreshed, wandering along the streets in the late afternoon. It was still jacket weather, the spring sun not strong enough to warm the deep shadows cast by the tall buildings.

He passed through Times Square, dazzled by the energetic crowd of people and languages and lights, giant electronic billboards shimmering and flashing. He felt a bit of culture shock -- the massive use of electricity and garish storefronts and obvious wealth such a contrast to the austerity of the country he'd just left.

He moved on, noting how quickly people walked, always in a hurry. Everyone seemed to be wearing black or grey; a rare bright colored coat stood out as a tourist.

John snapped a few shots -- the exterior of an old cafe, a theater marquee illuminated by hotly glowing lights, three girls giggling and taking a selfie in front of a poster for a Broadway show. He carried his Leica camera, light and small enough to be unobtrusive.

The smell of pastries wafted across the street and his stomach growled, making him realize how long it had been since he'd last eaten. He crossed over to the bakery and ordered a coffee and croissant to tide him over, picking up a copy of _The Times_ that someone had left on a chair. The first thing he always checked were the names of the photographers under the photos, then he dove into the news.

When he consulted his watch again, it was time to head back to the hotel to change for dinner. A small knot of nervousness formed in his belly as he began to walk. He tried to ignore it, not quite sure what was bothering him.

He passed a 24-hour pharmacy and slowed, reminded that he lacked some basic personal items. He entered the store and roamed the aisles until he found what he was looking for.

Good god, the variety of condoms and lubricant was staggering. Nothing hidden behind counters or kept under lock and key here. Words like _maximum, intense, pleasure,_ and _extended_ jumped out at him. He selected a few boxes and waited in line to pay, throwing a tin of mints onto the counter at the last minute.

The nervousness grew. In the hotel room, he touched the black suitcase that belonged to Sherlock just to make sure it was real. He tugged slightly at the zipper, curious. It gave way a few inches, and John slipped a finger inside. Soft fabric, maybe a t-shirt. He suddenly felt guilty and pulled the zipper shut again.

He changed into a white button-down shirt and looped the one tie he owned around his neck. His fingers felt thick as he fumbled with the ends, and he cursed as he undid the knot for the third time. He hated ties.

John took a deep breath and looked at himself in the mirror. He smoothed the hair away from his forehead, examined his scruffy beard. He suddenly could pinpoint his unease.

He was afraid the spark that had ignited between them half a world away wouldn't be the same here. The tension that had permeated their initial meeting two months ago had fed into their whirlwind night of passion, ending with Sherlock stealing his laptop and tanks rolling toward the presidential palace -- hardly a typical start to a romance.

He worried that he couldn’t remember precisely what Sherlock looked like. He had a good impression, of course, enough to dream about and wank off to, but the fine details -- the exact color of his eyes, the number of freckles on his neck, which cheek dimpled when he smiled -- evaded him.

He regretted not taking at least one photo of Sherlock, but there hadn’t been time, it all had happened so quickly.

And last night -- this morning, actually -- he didn't even have the chance to see Sherlock’s face. They'd fallen asleep, and Sherlock had vanished again.

John ruminated some more, knotting his tie again, finally satisfied with the result. What he did remember without fail, he reminded himself while straightening his shirt collar, was the weight of Sherlock's body against his own, and how right it felt.

It was true, they barely knew anything about each other, but tonight that could change. Tonight, they could talk, they could linger and memorize details, and take it slow until they ran out of words.

 

******************

 

The restaurant was long and narrow and dim, the candles on the tables casting intimate pools of light. His eyes still adjusting to the low light, John followed the hostess blindly as she led him to a table.

She stopped at a curved booth in the corner, the high seat back forming a semi-private wall. She held out a perfectly manicured hand. “Your table, sir.”

John had to step around her, his heart hammering in anticipation as he tentatively glanced into the booth. Sherlock was absorbed in the wine menu, running a thoughtful finger over his bottom lip.

John caught his breath. Gorgeous. Stunning. Speechless.

Sherlock glanced up, smiled.

His left cheek, John noticed and memorized, dimpled adorably.

“John,” Sherlock greeted him warmly as John slid into the booth.

John hesitated, not sure if they should shake hands, or kiss, or …

Sherlock avoided the awkwardness by looking pointedly at the hostess. “Please tell our waiter we’ll start with a bottle of the 2001 Saint-Emilion.”

She inclined her head and departed, and Sherlock turned to John, their gazes settling on each other. “It's good to see you. You look well.”

“So do you.”

They simply looked at each other for several more moments, filling in the blanks of nearly eight weeks apart.

Sherlock wore a black shirt under a black suit jacket, the clothing molding to his body like a glove. He was clean shaven, his hair longer than the last time John had seen him.

“You look great,” John reiterated, still a bit stunned.

Sherlock smiled again, his eyes moving down John’s torso, resting noticeably on his crotch as if seeing through his trousers.

“It's strange…” Sherlock mused. “I think we've spent more time together undressed than dressed.”

“Hmm… A pity that restaurants tend to frown on nudity.”

“I suppose so,” Sherlock grinned. His expression gradually grew more serious. “I've missed you.” His hand edged closer to John's on the leather seat, not quite touching. “I can't believe we're really here. I’ve been thinking about it for two months. About you.”

John’s fingertips crept toward Sherlock's, his own confession spilling out. “I was starting to worry that I wouldn't hear from you again. That you'd disappeared.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. “No. Merely delayed.” His gaze fell to their hands, and John was overcome with the urge to kiss Sherlock's neck where his collar lay open, unhindered by a tie.

“I was afraid…” John faltered, not sure he should say it.

“That it wouldn't be the same?” Sherlock finished for him, looking up.

John nodded. “That I… you… wouldn't feel the way we did before.”

Sherlock touched the tip of his index finger to John’s. “What did you feel when I joined you in bed earlier?” He lightly traced the back of John's hand. “What are you feeling right now?”

John swallowed, searching for the right words. Heat, desire? Raw want and a tiny sliver of caution?

“It's dangerous to try to re-create the past,” Sherlock continued, his voice low. “Perhaps we should christen a new beginning.”

John relaxed, his worries easing. “Starting with a proper dinner date?”

Sherlock’s mouth curved up. “That would be an excellent start.”

Just then the waiter arrived, interrupting their tête-à-tête. Sherlock pulled away to concentrate on the wine, then peppered the waiter with questions about the menu.

John agreed to all of Sherlock’s suggestions, not caring what he ate or drank as long as he could stare at Sherlock’s profile, watch the movements of his hands, hear the rich timbre of his voice.

There was soup, something gingery and refreshing. John filled Sherlock in about the weeks following the failed coup attempt, the government-imposed curfew, the uneasy calm that lay over the capital.

There was a small salad of spring greens laced with champagne vinegar. They talked about past travels, Sherlock studiously avoiding any specifics about his most recent trip.

The entree -- local lamb, new potatoes -- led to John's Army days, Sherlock’s past studies in chemistry.

Dessert (creme brûlée with fresh raspberries), and they had moved on to parents, siblings, broad strokes of their childhoods. By the last spoonful, they were full -- stuffed with an excellent meal, fine wine, and new details.

After paying the bill, they lingered over the last of the wine, falling silent. John moved his leg closer to Sherlock's, then placed a hand over his knee.

“Shall we go?”

Sherlock nodded.

They walked out into the cool night, feeling nicely alone in the teeming city. They weren't far from Central Park, so they strolled that way, drawn to the strings of fairy lights sparkling above an outdoor cafe.

Sherlock stopped on the pavement, taking in the pretty sight. “When was the last time you were truly a tourist somewhere, and not on assignment?”

John tried to think back. He really didn't take holidays. He just traveled for work. “I honestly don't know.”

“I can't remember either.” Sherlock stared down the street, then suddenly grasped John's arm. “Let's be tourists. Come on.”

He pulled John by the elbow, leading him across the street, past the cafe, to a line of horse-drawn carriages along the curb.

“What are you doing?” John laughed.

“It's our first date, isn't it? Dinner and a carriage ride.”

Sherlock approached a driver who was wearing a black top hat, negotiated for a minute, and returned to John. “We're all set. In you go.”

John shook his head in amusement, then climbed into the white carriage with a black canopy and plush red seat. The dappled horse sported a red plume of feathers between his ears.

The canopy was partially open, allowing a view of the night skyline. The driver clicked his tongue and they started off, the horse’s hooves clopping steadily as Sherlock draped a blanket over their laps.

John sighed contentedly and placed his hand on Sherlock's knee again. “He's not going to narrate the entire history of the city, is he?” John nodded toward the driver.

“I paid him extra not to talk.”

“Good.”

Sherlock angled his body towards John, leaning closer. John moved his hand up Sherlock’s thigh.

“How long is the ride?”

“Twenty minutes.”

The scenery moved past them in slow motion, the creak and sway of the carriage a soothing antidote to the city’s fast pace.

“I didn't peg you as a romantic,” John teased, his hand roving up even higher.

“Don’t mistake impulsive for romantic.”

John smiled, undeterred. “Don't underestimate yourself. You're doing an excellent job of sweeping me off my feet.”

“I never underestimate myself.”

“Cheeky,” John chided softly, moving his hand to Sherlock's neck, his thumb caressing the skin just beneath his ear. Their eyes met, ending their banter. The world fell away.

“I really need to kiss you now,” John murmured, drawing Sherlock’s mouth to his own. The kiss was delicate, a sip of nectar from wine-stained lips. John drew him back again, the second kiss as deliciously soft as the first, but lingering.

Sherlock's eyes were still closed when they parted, his hard edges temporarily blurred. John leaned his head back against the seat, watching Sherlock take form again.

Sherlock’s eyes slowly opened, a bit dazed. His head sank against the seat next to John's. “Kiss me like that again.”

John obliged, both hands cupping Sherlock’s face, infusing the kiss with every hope and fear and yearning he’d had during the last two months. He could feel Sherlock’s response, his fingers clutching into his shoulders, the little shudder when John pulled away to gaze at him again.

The carriage ride was working its spell on them, as cliched and silly as it seemed. John wanted to prolong this moment -- this breathless rediscovery, this aching tenderness -- for as long as possible.

They looked at each other, smiling faintly, out of words.


	8. Chapter 8

It combusted in the elevator, the pressure that had been building up between them all evening, their skin burning at the slightest touch, their thoughts turning molten with every glance.

The walk back to the hotel after the carriage ride had been quiet, a lit fuse of desire smoldering between them. It took every ounce of self-discipline to stand primly in the lobby, hands folded neatly in front of them as they waited for the lift.

_Ping._

The doors rolled open and they stepped in, Sherlock calmly reaching over to push the fifth floor button. The doors closed with a tired rumble, and they were alone.

Sherlock swiftly pressed John against the wall, his pelvis pinning him in place, his mouth roving hungrily, his palm smearing the mirrored wall above John's head where he braced his hand.

“I want to taste every inch of you,” he growled against John's neck. “From top --” a nip under his jaw, a squeeze of arse -- “to bottom.”

John watched their reflection in the opposite mirror, the image of their greedy hands and churning hips turning him on even more.

_Ping._

The doors slid open and they stumbled out, still groping, fumbling for a key card, clumsy as two drunks spilling into the room lighted only by the city’s glow through the open curtains.

They toppled onto the bed, banging shins and gauging elbows in their haste. This time John had Sherlock pinned in place, straddled over his hips.

John paused, the sound of their heavy breathing pulsing against the walls. He loosened his tie, removing the damned thing with a few agitated tugs, then rapidly unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off and onto the floor. He ran a thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone, fingers glazing down his long neck.

“‘I’m going to take you apart,” John promised huskily. “I’m going to work you until you melt under my mouth,” two fingers skimmed to the dip in Sherlock's throat, resting lightly in the hollow, “and then we’ll fuck and fuck until we both explode into a million hot stars.”

A guttural whimper escaped from Sherlock’s lips, his hands reaching for John's waist.

With sure fingers, John freed each button from the placket of Sherlock's fitted shirt, his efforts rewarded with the revelation of pale skin beneath black fabric. A metal disc on a chain -- his missing dog tag -- rested in the coarse hair of Sherlock's chest.

The corner of John's mouth lifted in recognition, and he spread his palms possessively over the firm pectorals, the dark pink nipples rising under the pads of his index fingers.

He felt Sherlock's cock harden between his own legs where he straddled him. John deliberately pressed against him, gyrating his hips, fingertips teasing the tight nipples, all the time watching Sherlock’s face, the way his eyes darkened, lips parted, his neck extended back.

Sherlock gripped John's waist, using the leverage to rut against him. After a few more delicious thrusts, John grasped Sherlock's wrists and bent forward, trapping Sherlock's hands on either side of his head.

He lowered his lips to Sherlock's, kissing him breathless, kissing his neck, his chest, swirling his tongue around the pink bud on the left, switching sides to suckle the right, eliciting a moan of pleasure.

He released the pressure on Sherlock's wrists, slid his palms over his shoulders, down to cradle his sides. John trailed his mouth down Sherlock's sternum to the warm skin of his stomach, his lips tracing the crescent curve of rib cage.

John turned his attention to Sherlock's trousers, nimbly undoing the fly, easing the waistband down past sharp hipbones, the taut skin too tempting not to kiss. He eased the black trousers down further, exposing the bulge of Sherlock's erection straining against black pants. John helped remove the trousers, shoving them carelessly down to the foot of the bed.

John hooked a finger over the pants, bending down again to kiss the tip of cock that peeked out. Overcome with Sherlock's scent, John mouthed the hard shaft through the fabric, feeling the firmness swell and shift under the wet heat. John slatted his tongue under Sherlock’s balls and pressed up, making Sherlock gasp and swear.

“Jesus --”

Sherlock impatiently pushed the pants down, lifting his hips, shifting his legs to free himself from the unwanted constriction. Unfazed, John rolled aside, then resumed his position between Sherlock's knees.

He stroked Sherlock's thighs as he kissed his way down both legs, spending extra time nuzzling the soft skin of his inner thighs. John finally shifted and looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock was propped up on his elbows watching John, his chest rising and falling, his expression a mixture of suspense and heated anticipation.

John stroked Sherlock's cock, pulling back the foreskin, his thumb working the sensitive underside of the head. A perfect bead of pre-come soon glistened at the slit.

Eyes locked with Sherlock's, John bent down, extended his tongue, and licked. Sherlock inhaled sharply, and sharper again when John's mouth engulfed the head of his cock, a sensation round and silken hot.

John stroked and fondled and sucked, Sherlock's elbows sliding out from under him as he melted into the sheets.

When the lavish attention ceased, Sherlock hazily opened his eyes. John was standing, hastily stripping off the rest of his clothes, turning away to fuss with something on the dresser behind him. Sherlock heard the tell-tale sounds of a wrapper being torn open, could see John's arms bent at waist-level.

Sherlock admired John's thighs and backside, using the brief lull to pry off his shirt and socks that had been forgotten. John was soon stretched beside him again, condom snugged on, lube in hand, his mouth by Sherlock's ear.

“You gorgeous man,” John murmured. “I want to be inside of you.”

“That's exactly where you should be,” Sherlock murmured in return, his fingers wending into John’s wave of silver hair as John's fingers worked elsewhere. “You didn't finish.”

“I always finish what I start.” John rolled Sherlock fully onto his back, fitting his hips between lean legs, easing his slicked cock into deep places that made Sherlock arch and shiver.

The slow strokes soon grew faster, urgency overriding finesse. John grabbed Sherlock’s haunches, hauling him closer; Sherlock hiked his calves over John's shoulders, both bucking and clutching, panting and grunting, Sherlock's hand curling around his leaking cock, fist stroking.

“John -- I -- _uhhnnn_ \-- ” Sherlock never finished his sentence, his words obliterated by the intensity of the release rolling like a thunderclap through his body, creamy strands of come arcing onto his stomach and chest.

John barely heard Sherlock call out his name before his ears roared with the white noise of an impending orgasm, the rush of blood, balls tightening, throat gasping, cock pulsing, drowning under waves of pleasure.

When they surfaced, they glowed, radiating like hot coals raked from a fire. John kissed Sherlock's damp brow, his mouth, a soft pull on his bottom lip.

For once, Sherlock had nothing to say. Instead, he wrapped a finger into the chain around John's neck, tugging him back for another salty, musky kiss.

 

**************

 

They weren't finished with each other yet. The next morning in the shower, John's fingernails bit into the grout of the tiled wall, Sherlock thrusting into him from behind, hands splayed around John's hips. Droplets snaked down the full-length glass walls, the spray of water dancing off their skin.

John turned his head, catching sight of their blurred bodies undulating in the steamy mirror, soft angles, his cock curving up, slick skin pressed against skin.

Sherlock clasped him tighter, sucked the side of his neck, gently biting, hips pumping. John moaned, shuddered, come streaking the tile, glistening, dripping, his body dissolving like sugar.

That night, the CNN market report flickered mutely in the background as Sherlock adjusted his knees on the plump sofa cushions, straddling John's lap. He positioned John’s thick cock just where he wanted it, then sank slowly down, down, gradually taking the girth, nuzzling John's mouth.

His thumbs pressed into John’s collarbones as he lifted, sank, breathing out, rising up, down, John's hands cupping his arse like a sacred object, shadows playing over the flexing muscles of Sherlock's naked back.

The second morning, John crept from the room, his body a bit sore from all their exertions. He returned not long after with two tall cups of coffee and warm bagels.

He placed breakfast on the dresser top, still moving quietly. He turned back to the bed, indulging in a moment to admire the nude figure tangled in the white sheets, still asleep.

John reached for his Leica, wanting to capture the hazy morning light, mussy hair, full lips, long legs. He stepped onto a chair for a high angle, full body portrait. He shot low: over a rounded shoulder, up a dune of hip, down to the flaccid cock nestled in a dark thatch of hair.

The scent of coffee warmed the room and Sherlock stirred. He opened his eyes and John caught the moment, his face unguarded.

_Click._

“Good morning.” John pressed the shutter again, capturing the sleepy smile.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock crooked an elbow over his head in protest. “That's not fair.”

“I brought you breakfast. And I want to remember how bloody beautiful you look in that bed.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. But coffee will.”

John took a final few frames, then set the camera aside. He handed Sherlock a cup, slipped off his clothes, then joined him for breakfast in bed. They tore off chunks of dense, chewy bagels seasoned with salt, sipped the steaming dark roast. They teased, nudged shoulders, shared long glances.

“Tell me something I don't know about you,” John suggested, raising his cup to his lips.

“All right.” Sherlock thought a moment, then answered. “I play the violin.”

“Really? Are you any good?”

“Better than average. I've even composed a few pieces.” He looked at John. “Your go.”

“Let's see… My middle name is -- don't laugh -- Hamish.”

Sherlock snorted, nearly spitting out a mouthful of coffee.

“I said don't fucking laugh.”

Sherlock looked away, clearly struggling to maintain his composure. “OK,” he said after a moment, “then I’ll confess. My real first name is William.”

John smirked. “Billy.”

“Don't.”

This went on for several more rounds, until Sherlock shifted onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. “Tell me,” he extended a finger, touched it to the scar on John's shoulder, “about this.”

John sighed, closing his eyes. He didn't like talking about it. But he would, for Sherlock. “In Afghanistan, we were on patrol, all very routine, no action in that sector for weeks. Maybe we got sloppy… But we were ambushed.” He paused, collecting his thoughts.

“We scrambled, exchanged fire, some of us took cover behind an outcrop of rocks… I saw one of our men get hit. I didn't even think. I crawled out, started pulling him back… And I got shot. Stupid, I suppose…”

Sherlock gazed at him, his face serious. “It was brave.”

John shrugged. “It was painful.” He tried to laugh it off, his throat going dry instead. There was a long silence. He flicked his eyes up to Sherlock's. “You can't ever tell me, can you? Where you've been, what you've done for this contract work?”

Sherlock looked down, smoothing the sheet with his hand. “No. They'd throw me to the wolves.” He kept his eyes down. “I can tell you that I used to have a nice little consulting business in London.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“I was a consulting detective. Took cases no one else could solve, including Scotland Yard. Shocking, really, how poorly trained forensic units are these days. No observational skills, no ability to make deductions based on the evidence right in front of their noses. I was doing rather well until I cocked it all up.”

“What happened?”

“Let's just say I angered the British government. I was sent away until I earned my way back into its good graces.” Sherlock glanced up again, his expression suddenly dark. “I'm not a good man, John. I'm not selfless like you.”

John didn't say anything, assessing him.

Sherlock lowered his eyes again. “You should know something else. I've been in rehab several times… Drugs… I’m constantly tempted. I take risks, anything to fill that void.”

John smiled ruefully. “I’ve been a soldier and a war journalist half my life. What the hell do you think that's all about then, hm? Not exactly safe choices.”

He propped himself up on his elbow, mirroring Sherlock. “Look, I drink too much. I've used people, helped people, done shitty, unforgivable things. I've seen the best and worst that humanity has to offer. You,” he lifted a finger in Sherlock's direction, “can't scare me off that easily.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched faintly. “I always scare people off. It's easier that way. Being alone.”

John picked up the dog tag that hung around Sherlock's neck, turning it in his fingers. “Seems to me you're not alone,” he said softly.

They looked at each other, suddenly on a precipice. John took the leap.

“Whatever you've done, I don't care. But I'm not letting you out of my sight ever again, William Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock looked away, seeming to freeze. John immediately regretted his words, dropped the tag. Shit, he'd assumed too much, rushed things, made an arse out of himself --

“Scott.”

John looked at Sherlock, confused.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That's the whole of it. My full name.”

John exhaled, relief flooding his body. He reached for Sherlock, drawing him to his chest, crushing his mouth with his own.

They finally broke apart, suddenly aware they had crossed over into new territory, something that could resemble a future together.

“I think,” Sherlock ventured, “that you should come back to London with me. With your medical knowledge and photography skills, you could be very useful.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“I’ll start consulting again. You could be my assistant.”

John jutted out his chin. “Partner.”

“Fine, then. Live-in partner, if it suits you. I work from my flat. It'd be convenient if we were both there.”

John gazed at him, biting his lower lip to quell the huge grin that was threatening to break out across his face. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “There's a second bedroom upstairs, if you want it.”

“We won't be needing a second bedroom,” John murmured, pulling Sherlock close again. He kissed him, not urgently, but tenderly, deeply, promising to be there when he woke up every day, his partner, his lover, his perfectly imperfect soulmate found in a war-torn city. “One bed will do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was fun! Thanks to everyone who encouraged a part 2 with these insatiable boys.
> 
> I have to admit, all those Startup gifs of Martin started to meld with the WTF Martin. No matter, both inspirations will work.


End file.
